


Time Has a Stop

by VeronicaRich



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 16:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11108583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: Why should the trivia of mere mortals matter to a goddess? After he's killed, Will tries to think like Jack. Missing AWE scene ... sorta.





	Time Has a Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2008. Thanks to Metalkatt for the beta.
> 
> (Title inspired by the Aldous Huxley novel.)

Pain blossomed, frozen in a brine-filled scream as the sea washed over him. Water filled his nose, open mouth, the ragged wound spilling half the blood of his chest down into the worn fabric of his abused shirt.

Will squeezed his eyes shut, blinking back the tearing sting of salt. Wetness coursed into his throat, his lungs, soaking through every part, burning what its minerals touched. He gasped, panicking; he tried to get up, but somebody’s hand was on his shoulder, pushing him down, fastening him to the slimy boards. He let out a sob of impotent anger, his life gone, death rushing in. The sea had spit him out too many times to be robbed of her prize this last time.

He was soon aware that his eyes would open, however, and that the sunlight, blurred and refracted, was dimming. Pressure pushed at his skin, but did not rent or rip it. The water here was calm, almost placid; above him, the whirlpool was slowing, stalling, filling in once more. Will breathed in-

-and didn’t cough.

He was suddenly, irrationally afraid of his ignorance. This was a battlefield he’d never expected to stand … swim, thrash, upon, and even the balanced sword still waving from his upper chest wouldn’t serve much use down here.

_Down here. Jesus Christ, where- How …_

Even as the ship’s deck tilted on its gentle spiraling fall through the deep ocean, Will was able to stand up straight as hands lifted him. At first he was like a new colt, unsure of his legs and clumsy, and each leg wanted to take off in a different direction. He clutched the monsters holding him up for support; looking between them, he was not afraid – and worried why.

“Why are you helping-” He stopped, hearing his own voice, clear as a bell in air, even as water sluiced between his eyelashes when he blinked. He hadn’t expected it to be out loud. “I can talk.” He put his hand to his chest to steady himself and prepared to say more, when something rough and hard pressed into his fingerpads. He looked down at the hard scab bisecting his chest diagonally. The knife, the cutting, the screams, his death.

“Oh, shit,” Will mumbled, feeling hollow.

“I had no choice, son. I had to.” As Will looked up, his father fell silent, expression frozen beneath the starfish covering half his face. Everybody else had gone dead still, too, not even blinking; he raised his own hand and wiggled his fingers to see if he were similarly affected. Nothing was moving but him; not even the sea, now.

And one more. “The sea, she takes what is hers when the time is proper.”

He looked around, startled; it seemed less frightening that her voice was clear than that it was _her_ voice. “Calypso,” he breathed, not even having to catch himself calling her Tia Dalma.

And then she was before him, clothed in seaweed and coral and softly swirling white eddies. “Captain,” she replied, dipping her head in acknowledgement.

“Captain?”

“This _is_ your ship, sir.” She smiled mischievously, but it was just this side of cruel delight, and he almost didn’t notice her radically altered speech. “You prefer another title?”

He could think of nothing, except: “I don’t belong here.”

“Think you not?” She looked about. “Who else but the direct descendent of Davy Jones?”

“What?”

“This is a blood ship, William Turner.” Her smile narrowed. “Or is your father not a Scot, too?”

He opened his mouth, but could say nothing. Questions! Too many all at once! But the only one that would come was: “What about Elizabeth and Jack? And the others?”

She cut the still water between them with an imperious wave. “The realm of the living is no longer your concern, Captain. The dead are your subjects now, and your responsibility.”

He cut his eyes toward the surface. “I have to get back up there.”

Her expression darkened. “Your ties are severed, your bonds cut to that world. You serve me and the sea.”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to counter a goddess. _Think like Jack._ “A bargain, then.”

“You are in no position to bargain with _me_.”

“Perhaps not.” He dipped his head, maintaining calm even as he wanted to scream and rail against the wholesale slaughter he knew was to happen any minute, for now overshadowing even his own death. “But I can refuse to do the job with which you charge me. I can let the souls drift aimlessly, wander lost and alone, unable to find and serve your glory.”

Now her smile was cruel, and triumphant. “You saw the monster Jones became.”

“What do I care? I would have nothing to look forward to, with all I love dead and gone.”

“You’d jeopardize your one day to see her every decade?”

Reflexively, Will spat toward the deck … only to watch the glob of saliva stop a foot from him and rise up, back toward him, floating. _Point taken; not the most intimidating statement, underwater_ , he conceded silently. He took a step to the side, leaning away from it, frowning, and looked toward Calypso. “Ten years?” He shook his head. “Not acceptable. I need to be able to see her whenever I like.”

“You cannot set foot on-”

“What? The deck of another ship?” It was Will’s turn to pin her with sharp eyes. “If I am master of the ocean, I believe I can.”

“You’re master of nothing!” she retorted. “You are a servant only.”

Concentrating, he willed the deck to steady, for his feet to stand flat instead of his toes pointing at a steep angle downward. He wasn’t sure how to do this, but it was better to try than to listlessly accept the weight she wanted to throw over his shoulders. As he closed his eyes, he felt the wood turning, so slowly, steady, the boards rising to meet his toes. The _Dutchman_ groaned against the stop of time, and he opened his eyes as the ship rotated halfway, coming about and creating currents around them, catching bright, still fish in its wake. “I _am_ this ship’s master,” he told Calypso. “And he will continue to do nothing, on my word.” He wasn’t sure why he knew _Dutchman_ wasn’t the traditional feminine, but had a sinking feeling he was about to get plenty of time to solve the puzzle.

To Will’s surprise, she looked less surprised than he had hoped. “You would trade ten years total service, for the chance to be with them more often in the short beginning of an eternity?”

For a moment, he doubted; then, he remembered her caprice. “You have no intention of releasing me anyway,” he guessed, glad his heart was removed from his self so that it couldn’t break. “You’ve put too much effort into just ten years. You couldn’t even remember when ten years had passed to honor your deal with Jones.”

She waved him on. “Save your mortal fools and wicked Jack again … if you can. You’ve proven I am no hindrance.”

He curled his toes in his waterlogged boots, reflexively trying to get a purchase on the boards he couldn’t feel. “I do not want your favor,” he admitted. “But I require it.”

“It’s _your_ ship,” she dismissed.

“But it’s partly your ocean.”

Calypso looked up at him from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “Think you can charm me into it?”

“I don’t need to charm you.” He smiled, understanding why she’d tried so hard to get back to the sea, why she had fixated on him instead of an easier – and less scrupulous – target of all the men she could choose from. “You want this job done well, again. You want tales and songs of your mercy as well as to your fury. You don’t like the curses being railed against you by the sailors who ought to be your willing servants.” He regarded her with the growing confidence of his new station. “You need what I offer.”

“I can secure my own worship,” she snapped.

“Can you?” He narrowed his eyes. “Neptune, Poseidon – by any name, he’s the real power in these waters, is he not? I could just as easily do this in his name, try to curry favor with him-”

“Which would do you no good-”

“According to _you_.” He hesitated. “Are you so certain I won’t find a way?”

She fixed him with a haughty look. They were both silent. Then, she smiled, though it wasn’t pleasant. “I’d almost forgotten what righteous spirit looked like.”

“That’s because you killed the last one by trying to harness it with lies and broken promises.” It was his turn to not let a smile reach his eyes. “You honor the occasional request, and you shall have a servant who glorifies you.”

With an unexpected move, she was upon him, her lips to his, the side of her nose brushing his as she licked into his mouth. When he opened his eyes, she was gone – and so was the lassitude that had frozen the-

_MY crew_ , he corrected himself.

He turned toward the stern. With each step, he felt the weight of his new office, the souls of the monsters – _men, they’re only men like you, Turner_ – tied with his own. The steps to the helm were leaden, and it had nothing to do with the suction of water.

Approaching the decimated rail, he blinked, shaking his head to clear away the loose hair drifting into his eyes. Annoyed, he patted down the pockets of the coat pilfered from Beckett’s ship, until he found a scarf shoved into the bottom of one. He took it out, folded it hastily, and tied it around his head as he’d seen Jack do. Then he touched the rail and traced the rough, slimy wood with his fingertips. _How do you work?_ he wondered, wanting to surface.

The ship started to rock, slowly, then he could feel it pressing against the bottom of his feet, lifting. He shook his head. “Guess the same way as awhile ago, hmm?” he said to the ship, humbly reminded of his own skepticism of another captain’s ability to converse with _his_ ship. He pictured Jack’s possible reaction to “the eunuch” as a captain, with his own crew, his own helm, his own – bigger – ship and guns.

And he grinned.

With that, he gripped the rail. “I hope you knew what you were doing, you mad old bastard,” he murmured. Head back, eyes closed, he felt every drop of water and brine sluice away as the wind caressed his face, taking a breath before turning to assume his final command.


End file.
